


Only Time Will Tell

by totilott



Series: A Groovy Kind of Love [38]
Category: DCU (Comics), Justice League International (Comics)
Genre: 1960s, Angst, Childhood, M/M, Multiple Selves, Time Shenanigans, Time Travel, Trans Character, Trans Rip Hunter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29827671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/totilott/pseuds/totilott
Summary: If they make it through this, Ted never wants to step so much as a minute out of the time he belongs in.[Conclusion to a three-chapter arc]
Relationships: Michael Carter/Ted Kord
Series: A Groovy Kind of Love [38]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1282328
Comments: 11
Kudos: 26





	Only Time Will Tell

A building tension in his upper chest alerts Ted to the fact that he _is_ holding his breath as he's lying concealed under the bed -- but thankfully he can't have been holding it for long, because he's able to exhale softly -- silently -- with no gasping.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees low brown pumps approaching. Tan stockings, the hem of a dark red skirt.

It's her.

It's her, alive, right there.

Right _there._

 _“Theo_ -dore...?" she murmurs melodically, like a whispered song. "How are you feeling?”

Ted hears movement above him, gently creaking springs. Theo's voice, wavering with apprehension: “I’m, uh, I-I’m... I'm okay, mom.” 

The shoes step sideways, there's a dip of the hem of the skirt, and more creaking above Ted, heavier. She’s seated on the edge of the bed, her heel an inch from touching Ted's shoulder. His heart is beating so hard he hears it as a bass drum in his own head. “You haven't eaten the bourekas I made." Then she adds, meaningfully: "They're with mashed potatoes, you know."

”I --” There’s audible hesitation in the child’s voice, a pause. “I have been sleeping.”

"You look all worked up."

"I've been sleeping," he repeats blankly. Then, abruptly, like the idea just crossed his mind: "I had a -- a scary-- duh-dream."

 _“Moi myszka,”_ she murmurs at him with a voice brimming with tenderness.

Hidden under the bed, Ted's eyes widen, his heart burning just from hearing it again after so many years. The first nickname he ever had.

_My little mouse._

His mother didn't speak with the same strong Polish accent as her older sister, didn’t use the language at home except in affection (and very occasionally, frustration). The same little phrases and pet names she’d heard when she was a child. And when those tender words were directed at him, Ted used to imagine that long line, generations of children hearing those words spoken by loving parents, spanning decades, maybe centuries; Spanning continents.

There's gentle movement next to Ted, the heel moving a fraction away from him. “Oh, you’re burning up,” she exclaims softly. "I shouldn't have left."

"No, mom, it's fine--"

"It's so cold in here!" The mattress raises a good inch above Ted when she stands up. "You shouldn't open the window, Theodore. Even if you're feeling warm."

Ted can sense a tense little jolt in the mattress above his head, and Theo is probably thinking the same thing, feeling that same dread -- _God, I hope there aren't any traces of the two people who slipped through that window moments before._ No torn piece of costume, no trampled footsteps in the lawn. 

There's a soft sliding noise, a subtle click as the window is closed. "You want I should get you a cold washcloth for your forehead?”

Theo coughs wetly. “ No, thank you.”

“I’ll get you a cold washcloth.”

Ted regards those brown shoes as they step out of the room, down the hall towards the bathroom in short, even steps. Focusing on staying still, breathing calmly, not -- not thinking. About this insanity that's happening around him. About her, about the absence of her. That he should be here to see her again just like she was.

Trying so hard not to think how this, too, will be the last time he ever saw her. Just another refresher for that grief, that ever-present ache. Reliving that sharp shock of betrayal he'd felt when he realized she _knew_ how ill she was when he left for college, and still she chose not to tell him. His first little exhilarating taste of freedom, of being his own person, while she was dying back home.

He can't ever make that right.

When she returns in tender silence, leaning over the bed, over her small son, her little mouse, he wonders if some part of her can sense how much he loves her. If it's noticeable in the energy of the room, in some secret receiver in her heart. He wishes the boy would tell her, right now, that he loves her, that he appreciates her, and will do so for the rest of his life. Because he can't imagine a single moment of his adult life not carrying the memory of her in his heart, even when his dad-- 

There’s the door again, at the other end of the house. Heavier footsteps, too familiar, and they make the melancholy tenderness in Ted's heart collapse like a house of cards. Makes his shoulders tense, makes a chill run down the back of his neck.

“You want to get started on those bourekas?” she asks him, her voice not the least perturbed or uneasy at the new presence in the house. "I'll let you eat in bed."

“No, thank you. Not hungry,” Theo answers hesitantly, then coughs again. “I think I want to, uh, to suh-sleep some more.”

“Alright.” The feet step softly towards the door, where they pause. “You call out if you need anything, _myszka,_ and _stay in bed._ No playing on the floor, even if you get bored. Okay?”

“Okay, mom.”

She doesn’t close the door fully behind her as she steps out, just partially, half an inch open. Ted remembers that assuring sliver of light late at night, the little gap that told him he wasn’t all closed in and alone in their house. The way he'd listen to the murmur of his parents’ conversation, or the drone of the living room radio, indistinct and muffled, until he fell asleep.

Ted exhales, a wavering sigh, and crawls out from under the bed. Getting to his feet, he pushes gloved fingers beneath the edge of his goggles and dries his eyes quickly. Then he casts a disapproving glare at the kid in bed who almost got them caught with his useless ideas, and Theo in turn frowns at him with his lips pressed together.

Obviously this is the moment to leave through the window. He barely averted discovery, and even now they're right there in the living room, maybe ten paces ahead. But Ted's body doesn’t move towards the window. Instead he finds himself inching towards the gap in the door, dropping down on one knee, silent. And he peeks through, down the short hallway, into the living room at the end.

He can’t see them, but when he concentrates he can just about make out the words.

“...Making a mess of things. Every time!” His father’s voice, sharp and sonorous, very much like his present-day voice. Or how it sounded the last time he and Ted spoke, anyway, years ago. “I’m writing instructions _kindergarteners_ ought to understand at this point, but no use, the men in production obviously can't understand even the simplest diagram. They start changing things and ignoring things and -- Who gets called in to Mr. Anderson’s office when the prototype doesn’t work? Not _those_ grease-stained idiots.”

“It’s not fair at all,” his mother replies gently.

Thomas Kord snorts. “You know, I feel like... I’m at the start of some conveyor belt, doing my very best, making this... Perfect little creation that just needs a little fine-tuning and polish down the line, then the next man _smashes it_ with a mallet.” A sharp exhale of disgust, just an exhale, but the memory of it, the familiarity of it, makes Ted’s jaw clench, makes something sharp and cold sting in the bottom of his stomach. “Over and over and over.”

Ted frowns at himself. Why is he still sitting here? What does he hope to prove, listening to them? Practically just waiting to get caught. Spying on his parents, like they were. Her, alive, and him before... Everything. Before it all fell apart.

Out in the living room there’s a long pause. Maybe she’s pouring him a drink from the cabinet. Maybe he's picked up a newspaper.

“I’ve made an appointment with Dr. Schultz tomorrow,” she tells him.

“Why?” There's a strange tinge of concern in his voice. “What’s wrong, Hanna?”

“Not for me, for Theodore,” she replies gently. “I think he's worse today.”

“Oh. Is he.” The fact that it was not even said as a question, it sets Ted’s teeth on edge. _Yeah, sorry for the inconvenience, dad. I should have checked with you before I got pneumonia._

“His fever’s not breaking -- and he hasn’t eaten all day, you know.”

“And you’re sure about that?” 

Ted grimaces in the dimness of the child's room. Oh, _fuck you._

His father sighs. “He might be avoiding something at school again. You've got to watch him, Hanna. He thinks he’s so clever with his little charades.”

There’s more of an edge to her words when she speaks. “He’s sick, Thomas. And he misses his friends, he misses school. He doesn’t _want_ to stay home.”

"I wonder,” he murmurs, sounding utterly bored of the subject. 

_Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you._

“Now, then--" The tone of his voice has changed again, this time to mellow contentment, obviously eager to change the subject. “What kind of wonderful dinner have you got planned?”

“Oh,” she murmurs, almost embarrassed. “I meant to have a chicken casserole ready for you when you got home, but Mrs. Chenowitz, with her wrist, I helped her with her laundry and it suddenly got so late, I’m sorry.”

“No matter,” he murmurs softly. “Just put me to work and we’ll have that casserole done in the blink of an eye.”

“If you don't cut yourself peeling potatoes again,” she teases, a giggle edging her voice.

He laughs. “That was _one_ time! You know I work with precision instruments, laser cutters! And you don’t trust me with a peeling knife?”

By the time she answers, their voices are too far away for Ted to make out the words, the sound not carrying all the way from the kitchen to his room.

He exhales slowly, unfocused gaze resting on the grain of the wooden door. He feels strange. Unsettled and upset and hurt. Why? What did he want to hear? What sort of lightning bolt revelation did he want to strike him?

For years he’s been telling himself that he... He must have missed something. That it didn’t make any sense, that his dad could be this affectionate, doting husband to her, and... Always so indifferent or cruel to _him._ Pushing Ted to do better, work harder, know more. And in that demand was an ever-present silent implication: That if Ted succeeded, if he did every little thing just right, perfectly, if he managed to shed or hide his flaws and shortcomings, he'd... Unlock something. Maybe be rewarded with his dad's respect and support, or at the very least be seen as tolerable.

The memories blurred by time, the passing years, Ted told himself that a man like that... Surely he was a monster to everybody. Obviously Ted must have been too young and naïve to see it, although he remembers with such clarity the way his dad’s eyes would soften, his voice grow gentle, when he saw his wife. The little gifts he’d bring home to her, the loving words he’d murmur into her ear on his way to work. And then he’d spot Ted and his good mood would be gone, acting as if every one of Ted's flaws was a deliberate act of antagonism, when they never were.

 _At least make an effort, Theodore._ His dad's voice still rings in his ears, when he's stuck, when he's not living up to his own expectations. _You're embarrassing your mother. For God's sake stop that crying, people are going to think I raised a girl._

Ted used to look up to him, once. Parts of him still do, even though he hates admitting it. Because sometimes... occasionally, rarely, there'd be a different energy between them. Sometimes it was like he got a little sample of how good everything could be. 

Whether by some strange cosmic influence, or Ted accidentally slotting into the space he was meant to for a short while, his dad would seem bizarrely mild and normal for a bit. He'd sit down with his son and patiently explain the principles of aerodynamics, of electronic circuitry; Pick apart broken appliances with him, guide his little hand holding the soldering iron. He'd ask Ted about school, or even his interests, and seem somewhat interested in the reply. Sometimes he'd smile and nod in subtly surprised approval when Ted showed him his latest blueprint or prototype.

Ted's talents, his love of engineering and science -- His dad gave him that. In those rare and perfect moments.

 _Not too bad._ That was the highest praise imaginable from his dad. Ted still remembers when he'd demonstrated his idea about the ionized magnesium shavings -- his dad patting his shoulder, murmuring those two words that would warm Ted's chest with pride for weeks. _Not too bad._

And during the dizzying rise of K.O.R.D Industries. The promotional photos, the keys to the kingdom. "Okay, group photo in front of the machine. Mr. Kord, closer to your son, please. Big smiles!" And Ted would have to concentrate not to jump from the shock of it, the absurdity of it, when he'd feel his dad's arm around his shoulder, see his warm smile. Until the bulb flashed and the performance was over, the stage cleared.

Sometimes when he couldn't sleep, Ted would lie in bed and imagine what it'd be like living in that family, the newspaper photo family. The burgeoning tech dynasty, Kord and son (and one day _he_ would have a son, and that son a son...). He remembers when he won that science grant when he was fourteen -- the blurb under the photo read _Young Kord with proud father._ He'd saved that one, just for the fantasy of it. Halfway wishing it would suppress his own memory of that day, his dad murmuring, "Well, the competition can't be tough every year".

Nothing ever good enough, Ted never good enough, never what he was supposed to be -- and at times he thought he knew, he thought he'd figured out who his dad wanted, and he'd dedicate himself tirelessly to be like that, act the part. And maybe he'd even achieve that nod of approval _(Not too bad),_ a smile -- and then it would all come crashing down again, hurting twice as much because Ted couldn't figure out where he screwed up this time, what he'd done to disappoint his dad yet again.

And his mom.

His mom who obviously, genuinely, loved her son -- how could she accept that? Year after year, tolerating the way her husband treated him. Even... Even being part of that pressure, urging him on when he got overwhelmed by exams and championships and tech expos and company promotional appearances, assuring him that he was too talented to fail, that _of course_ he'd do well, he was their son -- when all he wanted to hear was an adult telling him, _It’s okay. You can take a break. You can get back to this when you feel ready for it._

_(You can fail and I will still love you.)_

Because he was never allowed any breaks. He just pushed through, worked harder, lost sleep, lost friends, lost control and hated himself for it. It didn’t matter, as long as he could hide his shortcomings from the world, if not his parents. It didn't matter as long as his mother kept being proud of him and his dad showed the occasional hint that maybe someday he’d accept him, just a little bit.

How could she keep being part of that, if she wasn’t cowed by her husband somehow? If she wasn’t afraid of him? 

He assures himself there could have been plenty of things he never saw, that he was too young to understand. And that guilt pricks in him, that there’s a part of him that would be reassured by proof that his mother was mistreated. That it would calm something in him to find that missing, horrible piece of the puzzle, that he wasn't the odd one out. That it wasn't something to do with _him._

But she never seemed afraid, or bullied. She never seemed anything but happy, so fiercely proud of her husband, even back here, before his success and fame, before he became one of the leading names in engineering and technology. Adoring Thomas Kord even when he refused their son even one crumb of kindness. Even when Ted was tearing himself apart trying to please them.

A soft noise of fabric against fabric makes Ted stir and he lets out a held breath, his throat tight with emotion. He glances back at the kid, still sitting up in bed, watching him with silent distrust.

Sure. Maybe it’s good, being reminded of all the shit that he made it through. A little victory lap to ensure he doesn't fall prey to nostalgia, polishing the memories until all the sharp edges have been worn down.

At six, he’d barely started on the upheaval, the loneliness, the stress... Another few years of naïve calm (practically worshiping his dad, of course, _and_ his uncle) and then they’ll move, move away from everything that’s familiar and safe into a fancier, bigger house, to a fancier, bigger school. Surrounded by gentiles, obviously; Cruel children telling him out loud the things their parents would only hint at. His mother will stop speaking Polish entirely, no more sweet pet names, no murmurs of parental love in her first language. Assimilate, pretend, suppress, even in private. Even alone together in their own home. 

Ted gives the kid a parting snort, and opens the window again, slipping soundlessly out and dropping down on the soft grass below.

_Got some bad years ahead of you, kid. Safe journey._

The sky is darkening, dusk setting in. There's a sharpness to the air, carrying the scent of nature in gentle decay. Ted squints and listens, making sure none of the neighbors are nearby, not out walking dogs or getting their washing in. Silence. Only the gradually increasing wind. Then he creeps along the back of the house, careful not to step in the flowerbeds, until he’s circled back to the garage.

When he slips around the corner he finds them huddled between the garage wall and the evergreens, in hushed, tense conversation.

“Easy for you to say!” Booster hisses miserably, pulling his fingers through his hair. “We don’t even know where the nearest police station _is,_ so breaking him out is gonna be a _real_ \--”

“Who're we breaking out?” Ted whispers, unable to stop himself.

Rip startles upright, bright-eyed and grinning, as Booster turns and makes a noise. “Oh thank fucking God,” Booster breathes, tilting his head back against the wall, his body suddenly limp with exhaustion. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m fine,” Ted assures them, feeling a definite sense of relief warming his chest that Booster seems happy to see him. “Nobody saw me, we’re good.” He glances back the way he came from. “So what’s the, uh -- What’s the current plan?”

Booster turns and looks to Rip, silently urging him to speak.

A flicker of discomfort tenses Rip's face as he frowns down at the ground. “Well, I... I want us to go back to the time sphere.”

“And do what?” Ted asks in a hushed voice, knowing they're still exactly where the were when they left it, if not even worse off. That constantly bubbling anxiety in him feels like it's in a rolling boil by now. “What comes after that?”

“I don’t --” Rip exhales, glancing up at Ted. “I don’t know. We need to find some other source for tools, I need to figure why you can't remember.” He glances at the door to the garage. “We’re too close to the fire here. At least in the time sphere we're relatively hidden and...” His voice trails off again, his gaze darts to the ground.

"Right, okay, let's go then," Booster urges, a nervous smile on his face. "Home base, and we'll figure things out."

There's a familiar, if disingenuous, bounce in Booster step as they make their way into the empty street. As if he can make up for the doom and gloom by being twice as chirpy. Whenever Booster gets like that, Ted gets the distinct feeling things must be about five times worse than previously thought.

As they begin their walk back, a heavy raindrop smacks against Ted's shoulder, soaking through the fabric. Then the sky opens up for real, a heavy torrent crashing down on them, a continuous wall of icy water.

Of course. All that was missing.

They're soon fully soaked through, all of them, as they slowly make their way along the dark, empty streets in total silence. Shivering, from the cold and rain, from the adrenaline, Ted notices the back of Booster's suit has a fresh new hole from where it got caught when he slipped through Theo's window, the skin underneath scraped open and bruised, and Ted can tell from the way Booster is pressing his arm to his side his shoulder probably aches. He tries so hard to image that sometime soon, when they're home, he'll tend to it. Clean Booster's shoulder, bandage it, mend the shirt, warm and safe in a year they belong.

When they get home.

He tries telling himself that the others are right, they'll get inside the time sphere, get out of the rain, and things will look brighter. Rip will kick back and have a good think and he'll know exactly what to do, he'll have his eureka moment that only someone who knows how time travel works can achieve, and he'll... He'll fix it. They'll get home, everyone will forget all they saw, all they witnessed, never speak of this again... Everything will fit into place.

Because the alternative, the many, many alternatives, is that they're lost decades before they should, and Ted and Booster and Rip will stay stranded here, stranded in Ted's miserable childhood and they'll have years and years to see it all unfold again, this dress circle view of every defeat of Ted's, every heartache, every disappointment, every chance that he wasted, every weird and awkward and lonely part of him. 

The tight little ache inside Ted is only getting harder and tighter and heavier with every step. His lungs feel like they're being slowly squeezed by a giant hand.

"What's wrong?"

Ted startles at the voice, finding Booster walking alongside him, studying him with concern. "Uh..." Ted's heart is beating so hard in his chest it hurts. He tries offering a self-conscious smirk, but his face only twitches. "Ev--Everything."

"We're almost there," Booster tells him gently, as if Ted doesn't know. As if he's not intimately familiar with these streets.

"It's not going to change anything," Ted whispers, a tight hiss to his voice as he glances towards Rip's silhouette walking ahead of them. "We're just-- we're moving around. One place to another. We're treading water, that's all we're doing."

"It's gonna be --" Booster inhales, offering a whisper of a smile. "I told you, Rip'll fix this."

"He doesn't _know_ how to fix this!" Ted's voice comes out louder now, and he feels both embarrassed and justified, his own voice in accord with everything tight and hard and anxious inside of him. "All he's done is get us here and get stuck, that's all he knows how to do."

"Come on, that's not fair," Booster protests in a low voice.

"Fair?!" Ted exclaims, and ahead of them he sees Rip stop without turning towards them. "You're worried about _him?_ You're worried he's gonna --?" Ted moves his hands up in a gesture of defeat. His throat feels tight, his lungs tighter. "You think any of this is fair to _me?"_

Rip turns, now they've all stopped, and thankfully they're a good distance from the nearest house. "Look, Beetle, I am sorry," Rip tells him in his soft voice. "I know this is, um -- an extremely stressful situation to find yourself in, this is very far outside your... normal workday. I know."

Ted exhales unevenly through his nose, something sharp and ugly bubbling inside him. "You do, huh?" he hears himself reply.

"Yeah, and I --" Rip frowns, combing his fingers through his curls. "I know I've been a little more, um, distracted than I thought I would be, because I'm -- I'm working blind, I'm juggling parts I don't usually..." His voice trails off, and he blinks before he smirks apologetically at Ted. "But once we can stop being interrupted every few minutes, it'll be... I've been in trickier temporal situations than this, you know."

Bubbling, bubbling, bubbling over. It's like a cold, angry icepick in Ted's chest. "I _don't!"_ he exclaims, his hands jerking up in an impotent, angry gesture. "I _don't know_ what you've been through, what you're usually like, what -- what fucking solutions you're meant come up with, because we-- we've barely spoken together, Rip! We don't _know_ each other!"

“Ted. Don't--" Booster tells him sharply, but Ted's beyond that, an avalanche inside of him that can't be stopped by Booster's disapproval.

Ted's throat is tight with fear and anger, his extremities tingling with dim but increasing panic. "I don't know you at _all,_ " he hisses, holding Rip's gaze. "Maybe... Maybe nobody does. And that's the whole point, isn't it?" He inhales through clenched teeth, but his throat, his lungs, feel restricted, like he can't get enough oxygen down there, like something is squeezing him tighter and tighter. _"You_ get to take all the precautions, _you_ get to protect your p-past and your identity and _everything_ about yourself." He presses a palm against his increasingly constricting chest. "I don't! I don't, because you got us here and everything keeps getting worse and we don't have a plan, and every moment we're here we--" 

"Ted, Ted," Booster urges, gentler now, touching his shoulder, but it doesn't stop the tension, the squeezing, it doesn't help Ted breathe any more freely. "This doesn't help. Nobody's here on purpose."

Rip regards him silently, eyes dark and attentive.

Ted continues, sneering at Rip, "You get to see everything, _know_ everything, every part of m-my -- and that's not --" He has to pause to draw a tight, ineffective breath, a strangled wheeze sneaking into his breathing now and he knows he needs to stop. He knows he needs to stop himself before his body starts working against him, before he faints or starts crying or throws up or shuts down, before he becomes overwhelmed and pathetically helpless like he did years ago on Pago Island.

"Deep breaths. Deep breaths," Booster tells him softly, and Ted is at once touched and upset that Booster can see it too, that Booster is less concerned with his words than his approaching meltdown. It's humiliating enough to lose control when Booster can see, but he can feel Rip's eyes on him, Rip who won't even deign to reply, Rip who shows with his silence just how pathetic and ridiculous Ted is acting as he's letting all his anger and fear spill out. 

Ted grimaces, forcing himself to fill his lungs, fight against the pressure. _"That's_ what's not _fucking fair,_ Rip!" he chokes out at last, something in the back of his mind telling him none of this is productive. Just a childish tantrum, impotent anger, making him feel ashamed and stupid and angrier at himself than at Rip, feeling he's more Theo than Ted right now.

Silence surrounds them except for the beating rain and Ted's strained breathing.

Rip, frowning, looks at Ted with dark eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching, once, as he seems to weigh something over in his mind. Then he opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out, and he closes it again, leaning back on his heels. "I don't think we--" He clears his throat, making a hesitant half-step away from them. "Okay. We can talk in the sphere."

His breathing is slowly, slowly getting easier now, but Ted's misery and humiliation and frustration are the same, weighing him down, making his body feel tight and heavy. Booster's looking at him, blue eyes tensed with concern. Not even angry, not even about to launch into another one of their pointless fights.

Instead of acknowledging the concern in Booster's eyes, Ted snorts and starts walking too, careful to trail a good distance behind Rip.

* * *

The sphere is just where they left it, the glass looking dull in the darkness and with cascades of water running down, following the curve of it. The inside feels just as cold and miserable as outside, but at least they're out of the rain. Rip leans over the console, turning on a small light inset above the button panels, before dropping down in the pilot seat, not looking at the other two standing awkwardly in the yellow glow.

Everything is ridiculous and miserable and hopeless, and whatever bright flash of inspiration or air-clearing conversation they were meant to have out here seems a long way off. Ted swallows thickly, tilting his head back to look up at the black sky, warped by the torrents of rain against the glass. His flare of anger feels lessened, growing dimmer, but only so that the feeling of hopelessness can take up more room in his body.

“I understand,” Rip tells him abruptly, his voice sounding uncommonly thin in the silence of the night. "I mean, what you're feeling, I think it's probably... Well. A natural reaction to have in this situation."

More pity. More vague comforting. Ted grimaces to himself, shame and frustration in equal measure bubbling inside him, that Rip and Booster should see him like that, overwhelmed and emotional in the street. "No, I was..." He clears his throat. "I don't know. Just forget it."

“No, I felt you were pretty... upfront with me, I appreciate it." Rip lifts a hand to scratch the area behind his ear, thinking for a moment. "Like, I know. It's _not_ fair. I wish we weren't here at all, too. I mean, we really weren't supposed to be."

"It was an accident," Booster points out in a soft voice.

"Part of being the, um --" Rip grimaces slightly, so fast it would be missed with a blink. "Time Master. I have to think consequences. All the time. All the time, and sometimes that makes me a little -- independent. Caught up. I'm sorry."

"So just _tell me_ what the consequences might be," Ted urges, clenching his fists at his sides. "I mean, that's what's on my mind, too. That's all I want to know."

Rip sighs. "No, you see, there -- There are consequences of telling, too. I'd change the timeline a lot more if people knew what's meant to happen. Mostly-- All I'd guarantee was that it wouldn't happen that way."

Ted snorts. Sure. Sure, that's the whole deal, isn't it? Only Rip can know, only Rip has access to all the important information about everyone and everything, and he gets to keep it all to himself. Who gave him that right? Who made him king of the timelines, of the unfolding of people's lives?

“And this is another, um --” Rip picks absentmindedly at his bandage. “Even for me. My own life. I have to be careful, I have to maintain my own... blind spots. A lot of them, so I don't influence myself too much, as well." He looks up at Ted with an almost self-conscious smirk. "Some of the unique challenges that comes with living a non-linear life."

Ted pauses. This isn't the conversation he was preparing himself for on the way here.

"So -- there are things I can't tell you. And I'm really sorry if that feels frustrating, and unfair, but what I _can_ tell you, is..." Rip smiles, a little nervously. "We're _going to_ know each other, eventually. Pretty well, I think. And, uh, there will even be points where you will have experienced things with me that I haven't experienced yet, and then you will know things about me that I've yet to learn --"

Ted can't even muster up the anger from before. He's too confused to be angry. Completely out of his depth. He glances past Rip, at Booster, and blinks at him in a silent question, hoping maybe this makes sense to another time traveler. Booster returns his wide-eyed, confused look, shrugging his shoulders subtly. 

"So, in essence, you know, ah --" Rip swallows, massaging his bandaged hand. "This is one of those blind spots for me, I don’t really know how this is supposed to go. How it went originally.”

Booster clears his throat. "How what went originally?"

“Booster, did you have a chance --? To figure out if he--” Rip glances up at Booster and sees some kind of silent reply Ted doesn’t catch. “No. No, you didn’t, that’s alright. Uh. Yes.” He looks back at Ted, frowning in concentration for a moment. “Like, I know that you're under a lot of stress right now, Beetle. I can tell because you haven't even realized that you do know things about me.”

Ted exhales through his nose. What, like what thread he uses to mend his suit? That he takes inopportune bathroom breaks? “I do?”

“I know when you've -- When we're back, when everything's normal, I'm sure the pieces will come together for you. You already know, really.” Rip glances down and seems to notice his fiddling has undone part of his bandage, and he clumsily tries reattaching it, slipping the end under the rest. “You remember I explained about the tachyon leak that got us here, how it fed off whoever was in the pilot seat?”

Ted frowns. “Uh. Yes. Sure.”

“Well, I was in the pilot seat first, when it started happening.”

“What do you mean?” Ted murmurs, frazzled mind trying to think back, trying to remember some of the other craziness that happened this morning. “Like, uh... The room with the piano? You mean that -- that had some kind of connection to you?”

“Yes.” Rip presses his lips together in an awkward smile. “I was in there. You saw me.”

Ted blinks, mind feeling cobwebby with all the things he's had to process today. “You're saying the old man, that was you? I mean -- _will_ be you?”

Rip titters softly, and glances to Booster. “No. No, the other one.”

Ted feels he must have overlooked something. Forgotten something. Because the only "other one" he can think of...

Little hands cutting off straw-colored curls.

The realization hits him like a crashing wave. "Oh," he breathes. "You mean the little g--" 

“A time when people thought I was a girl,” Rip interrupts him gently, holding his gaze. 

Ted leans back against the glass wall. “Oh,” he murmurs again.

Next he feels Booster's forearm brush against his arm, silently requesting his attention, and when Ted turns, Booster gives him a single, solemn nod, almost like a warning to mind his words. But then Booster seems to react to whatever emotion is currently on Ted's face, and his stern expression melts into a smile. “Look, it’s another one of those things the 20th Century isn’t -- isn’t really _great_ at," he informs Ted. "So I understand if it’s, you know. If it’s not a subject you’re very familiar with.”

Rip clears his throat and continues; "I'm trying to tell you that I'm not some... unknowable time tyrant, Beetle. I had a childhood too, and stumbling into it is just as disorienting to me when I'm not expecting it, even --" He glances meaningfully towards Booster. "Even if it's the good parts I get to revisit."

Ted sits in his own quiet, rushing stillness -- disoriented, yes, but also incredulous at himself that he couldn't see it, that he couldn't connect the dots, see the pattern in the sphere's malfunction. It's so clear to him now, though, the blonde curly hair is the same, the keen eyes... The chin has obviously become more elongated with age, the cheekbones more prominent with Rip's leanness in adulthood. And deep inside he thinks... Aren't those eyelashes noticeably long, aren't those shoulders a little narrow? Should he have understood it from the start, even before they'd entered the time machine?

But he scoffs at himself. Booster's eyelashes are even longer, and assigning meaning to the length of someone's sternum sounds like something one step removed from phrenology. No need to act even more irrational than he has been.

Instead a thought creeps into his head, that despite Rip's best efforts to keep every part of (...her...? No, no--) his past secret, by sheer dumb luck Ted and Booster became one of the few people to witness his childhood. How odd that must feel, how invasive, even though Ted and Booster obviously didn't mean to. And if it had been _that_ childhood they were currently stuck in -- whenever that was, wherever that was -- what good would it have been for Rip to rage and act hurt at them for seeing it? What's the use of Ted acting that way, when the people he's with aren't here out of malice, aren't even being unkind about the things they happen to see?

He hears Booster's voice, dimly, "You know, I was trying to introduce you to the concept earlier, when we were -- Well, like, um, basically it's --" Booster squints an eye in thought, searching for the right words, or maybe appropriately dumbed-down versions of the right words. "Some people feel at home with the gender they’re assigned at birth, like I guess what the doctor announces -- it feels like it's the right fit for them, and others--”

“Oh! Uh, yes,” Ted interrupts abruptly, snapped away from his churning thoughts. He sees the look Rip and Booster exchange and realizes they must think he's gone into complete confused shutdown judging from his lack of response. And he wouldn't blame them. God, when Booster had broached the subject as they were waiting outside the sphere, Ted's mind had skipped straight to chemistry. What a massive idiot he is. “I know about -- I’m aware of, you know... Transgenderism.” 

Booster purses his lips in a moment of genuine surprise. “You are?”

“I, I -- I mean, I’ve read about it. Articles and --” Ted sends Booster a look. It's not like he can declare himself an expert, but he's hardly the primitive Neanderthal Booster seems to think he is sometimes.

“I kinda just assumed --” Booster murmurs, studying him. “You know, with how you were about sexualities and --”

“Well, I’d read about those kinds of things too!” he interrupts sharply, flushing, before Booster brushes up against the biggest secret of all. “I wasn’t ever -- I’m not _totally_ clueless. I do know things, you know.”

“I know you know things!” Booster grins, looking like he's about to giggle. "I just never know how -- especially with these things -- how correct that information is."

It dawns on Ted that he's gotten stuck in a conversation regarding the actual, personal matters of the third person in the sphere, and he turns to Rip, who's been regarding them silently, his face polite and attentive and impossible to read. “Look, Rip, I --" Ted makes an embarrassed grimace. "I’m really sorry I blew up earlier, you didn't need to -- We’re done discussing it," he assures him firmly.

Rip exhales through his nose and smiles a guarded smile, and Ted realizes maybe he shouldn't be the one to decide when they're done discussing someone else's experiences.

"That is, we don’t have to, if it makes you -- I don't know how you want -- I mean, thank you," Ted babbles, wishing someone else would take control of this conversation. "Sorry. I get it, I’m not the only one who -- I realize it must have felt so, uh, so invasive back there, us seeing you and -- Especially with your... Your area of expertise, how you need to be careful.” He gestures helplessly at him. “I mean, for me, I only know you like, like _this,_ so it’s definitely not... You're like this, that hasn't changed for me."

There's something like quiet amusement flickering in Rip's eyes for a moment.

"I really wouldn't want to be inconsiderate or, or weird about it at all.” He takes a deep, uneven breath, realizing that might be just what he's being. “So please tell me if I do... that." Finally he forces himself to pause, closing his eyes for a minute, slowing down. "Rip. I'm sorry I had a freak-out. I'm sorry I made you feel like you had to--" He gestures weakly at him again. "Confess your private business to me. You didn't need to."

Rip smile widens. “Like I said, I'm confident you'd realize how the time sphere's malfunction was acting once your mind got a little less preoccupied." He nods mindfully at him. "I just figured I'd hasten it a little, so you'd see that perspective of it."

Ted nods, embarrassed at himself.

"I wasn't sure how you'd -- Anyway, it's a thing I can be open about in other eras." Something almost melancholy creeps into Rip's smile, tenses the edge of his mouth. "You just happen to be living in a time when, well..." He exhales softly. “My point is, we already know a lot about each other, considering. I just wanted to let you know the playing field is slightly more even than you might think. No need to feel like it's only you against the timestream and the world.”

“Thank you,” Ted breathes, feeling like an awkward idiot.

“Thank _you,”_ Rip grins in reply and sits up tall, stretching his back. "I swear, Beetle, we'll -- I'll figure out how to get home. I just need... I wanted to sit undisturbed among my own things and think."

"Please," Booster murmurs. "Feel free."

* * *

The continuous tapping of the rain against the sphere only increases and decreases in periods, never stopping. Outside they can only barely make out the trunks of the closest trees from the glow of the console lamp, and beyond that there's nothing but darkness, except once when a car drives past, the beam of the headlights illuminating the glistening canopy above before everything is dark again.

Rip sits sprawled in the pilot seat, limbs heavy and loose like a ragdoll, face turned up as he thinks. Booster rests on the floor, back leaned against the glass -- the chill making his scratched up shoulder sting a little less, at least that's what he said when Ted offered the other seat to him.

It's more of a functional chair than a comfortable one, the scratched leather seat barely padded, making Ted feel the inside structure more keenly every minute that passes as he sits, arms folded, feeling the silence weigh heavier and heavier. The surprise that came from the conversation with Rip occupied him for a short while, but ultimately Ted concluded it's none of his business, nothing that impacts him, and instead he feels a rare little flicker of gratefulness that Rip told him he considered him intelligent enough to see the truth eventually, when Ted's been feeling like an idiot ever since they stepped into his lab this morning (This morning, decades into the future).

Instead Ted sits in that uncomfortable chair and thinks about pasts, and futures, and the things that happen in between. He ponders timelines -- fate and predetermination and what might happen despite of it. And he doesn't know. He knows nothing about it at all. Doesn't know if he'll fade away the moment they step into the right year, or change into someone else than who he is.

Next to him, Rip stirs, like he's uncomfortable, lowering his head as he rolls up one arm of his jacket, massaging his forearm where he shocked it earlier in the day.

"Does it hurt?" Ted asks in a barely audible voice, almost like he's afraid he might interrupt some critical thought process and doom them further.

"Mm," Rip concedes softly. "Not much. It's almost... itchy."

"I should have thought to look for some burn salve or something when we were in the house." Ted glances back into the darkness in the approximate direction of where they came from. "I'm the one who knows where the medicine cabinet --"

"In the bathroom, yeah. Didn't have any." Rip chuckles softly when Ted startles, looking at him. "I wish I'd stolen a few tablets from that bottle of Bufferin, though."

Ted frowns. "It's really that risky?" He looks up, meeting the slightly confused gaze from the Time Master. "That's what you're saying? That a few missing painkillers could alter... everything?" God, every leaf they've stepped on, everything they touched in that garage...

Rip continues staring at him for a few moments, blinking, and then he almost startles upright. "Oh! No, no, I just didn't take any because I wasn't feeling that burn so much back there." He grins. "Didn't realize I'd soon have to sit still and be so aware of the stinging."

Ted squirms slightly, feeling the hard edge of the chair under him. And once again he feels... so utterly clueless about how any of this is supposed to work. He feels like he's been transported to some alien planet where everything is mortally dangerous but he doesn't know exactly how, or what to look out for.

Rip seems to guess at what Ted's thinking, and he assures him softly: "A couple of missing pills from a large bottle in a household medicine cabinet in the nineteen-sixties... That would have such a miniscule chance of altering time it rounds to zero."

“Okay, so how _does_ it work? I mean, time. Timelines.” Ted takes a deep breath before he manages to ask what part of that question is truly weighing on him: "What happens if we mess up so bad that I don't exist anymore? In-- In our own time?"

“Look, I’ll --" Rip clears his throat, shaking some life back into his limbs, sitting up. He frowns at Ted in tense earnestness. "I repair timelines, that's what I do. If we’ve screwed up something in the path you're meant to take, I’ll --” He turns his head, looking at the dark trees surrounding them. “I’ll come back here later, and I'm gonna fix it.” He glances back at Ted, not able to disguise the hesitation in his eyes. “I’ll do everything I can.”

“Appreciate it,” Ted whispers, all too aware of how Rip's confidence seemed to lessen for every word in that sentence. “But -- please. Rip. Tell me. If we get back to 1991 and I never -- If I’m supposed to be dead, or, or something other than who I am, if I’m not a hero anymore, how--” He grimaces, trying to figure out how to word the question. “What’ll happen to me?”

“Well, you --” Rip gestures at him. “That version of you will be there.” He pauses. “Or, you know, _not_ there, depending.”

Ted makes a little huff of frustration. “Okay, sure, but -- what about _me_ me?” He spreads his fingertips and presses them against his own chest. “What’ll happen to -- _me?_ This body, these memories?”

Rip raises his eyebrows, obviously struggling to find a way to explain. “Well, essentially, if we’ve radically changed your personal development --” 

“What do you mean by _radically_ changed?”

A pause. “Well, there’s this thing called the Martinet Principle in time travel. It’s... Hard to explain.”

Ted can feel a strange, pleading smile on his face. “Try.”

“Well... There’s a bit of leeway.” Rip folds his arms, staring out at the dark rain. “Timelines are self-correcting up to a certain point. You’ve got some set points that you can’t change no matter what, and for everything else there is...” He flutters his fingers. “Leeway."

"Leeway."

"Up to a point.”

Out of the corner of his eye Ted can see that Booster is tensely watching them, listening in.

“I told you it’s hard to explain,” Rip murmurs apologetically. “Let's see. Like, if young Ted -- Theo." He gestures in the direction of the house. "If he now grows up and decides to be a, a -- A veterinarian! No urge to fight crime at all. That’s drastic, that’s a radical change from the timeline we know.” 

“Definitely,” Ted whispers lamely, and it's not even a punchline. He never had a pet of his own, wasn't allowed to by his dad. Tried circumventing that rule it as well as he could, though. He had an ant farm he got embarrassingly attached to. Bred moths for a while in high school, just for fun.

“Well, with a radical change, that’s essentially a different person, going through different life events," Rip continues. "There’s no way the veterinarian version of you would seek my help and go travel through time. But on the other hand, if we only wound up changing you a _little_ bit...” Rip regards him for a moment. “Like, say -- What we did today somehow changed your favorite color from, um, green to red. Or made you love brussels sprouts.”

Ted snorts.

“Well, that’s pretty much insignificant in the unfolding of your life, right? You’d wind up where you are regardless, you wouldn’t be a truly different Ted Kord, temporally speaking.” He points to Ted. “You’d be the same Blue Beetle, you'd come ask my help, we'd wind up here, and... return, the same. You'd be exactly who you were before this mission, except with a deep abiding love of brussels sprouts, and you wouldn't be aware that there had been a time when you disliked them.”

“Okay, but that’s what I’m trying to ask you," Ted pleads, increasingly frustrated. "If there _is_ a drastic change, if there’s a veterinarian in 1991 in my place when we go back --”

Rip looks at him, patiently waiting for a question, and it feels mad to Ted that they're operating on such different wavelengths, that the gap between their understanding is so massive that Rip can't even guess what Ted is trying to find out.

“What happens to _me_ when I step out of the time sphere?” Ted once again taps his own chest, indicating himself, this body, _this_ Ted.

“What do you mean, ‘happens’?”

“For God’s sake, Rip!” Booster exclaims from his seat on the floor. “Is he going to blink out of existence or fade away forever or what?”

“Oh!” Rip exclaims, looking between them with wide eyes. “Oh, no. No, no, he’s... He's central to this whole timeline event, we wouldn’t be here in the first place to alter it without him." He taps the console with his fingertips for emphasis. "I mean, the sphere’s even got his chronal signature imprinted! Accidentally, granted, but --”

Ted looks at him, feeling stupider than ever. He was able to pick up that Rip seems to be trying to reassure him, comfort him, though he doesn't understand the significance of anything that just came out of Rip's mouth.

“I mean, _you’ll_ keep on existing, definitely, but it -- Ah. It’ll be a real mess, logistically speaking." Rip offers a sympathetic grimace. “Me and Booster, we were here with you when the timeline changed so when we all return we'll remember you, original you, _this_ you --" He gestures at Ted. _"We'll_ know, but no one else will -- not your family, not your friends. You won’t be able to continue living the life of Ted Kord at all because there already _is_ a Ted Kord, a very different one, or he's -- he's dead, a matter of public record, too. We'll have to arrange a fake identity and of course your personal belongings won't be there anymore, or they won't belong to _you_...” 

Ted exhales deeply, from the very depths of him. “Okay, but I'm -- _I’m_ not going anywhere?”

Rip slumps back in the chair, smiling kindly. “No. You’re not going anywhere.”

Behind him, he hears Booster let out a wavering breath, sounding dangerously close to a sob. "Rip," he murmurs, his voice a little hoarse. "You _gotta_ learn to explain this upfront to people. Christ, man." He swallows, his head tilting back against the glass, closing his eyes. "Make it a children's book or something. Big pictures with lots of colors. Please."

Ted's aware that he's smiling. He feels a flash of warmth, of love, that Booster is so relieved. That he was worried, too, even after their fight. Booster doesn't want to lose him the same way Ted doesn't want to be lost.

Rip wipes his face with both hands. “Sorry. Sorry, I didn't realize -- I should have explained that earlier. I'm not used to doing this with other people like this,” Rip admits softly. He twists in his chair, holding Ted's gaze. “But that's our worst case scenario. Okay? It needn’t get that bad, we might get home without any ill effects, or -- or very minor ones, so let’s work on our plan B.”

"Okay, yeah. Yes,” Ted murmurs, sitting up and rubbing his aching legs. His heart is still pounding in his chest. Trying to assess their situation objectively now he doesn't have to worry that he'll fade out of existence at any moment. “I mean... We don't even know how long we're gonna be stuck here. Until we can find some tools, I guess first, uh, order of business should be less conspicuous clothes, right?" He pinches his costume at the shoulder. "If we have to go out there and -- and talk to people. Move among them.”

Maybe they have to travel to a place with a hardware store, or... Or find jobs, so they can buy the things they need. Could be stuck here for a good long while. Days. Weeks. Maybe months.

“You don’t think, um, heroes in costumes might open a few doors?” Booster ventures. There's something tired in his eyes. “Like maybe people’ll be more eager to help us?”

“I don’t know, heroes weren’t so thick on the ground back in the sixties." Ted massages his neck, thinking back. “Fewer active ones, not as many names and costumes to keep track of. Especially around here.”

“Fair point,” Rip concedes. “We might bring more attention to ourselves than is useful.”

“I just worry that people’ll recognize you,” Booster tells Ted with frown. “Like what if they’ll see the connection to Theo and that’ll change his timeline even more?”

“You’re giving the people of Balvadere a lot of credit here,” Ted snorts. “I’m just a random stranger to them.” He smirks at Booster. “What, you really think I look that similar to myself at six?”

“I don’t know,” Booster murmurs, glancing down to the floor. _“I_ see it.”

“Okay, so plan B is gonna take a while,” Rip sighs, pushing his hands in to his pockets and stretching against the back of the chair. “Maybe first order of business should be acquiring some food.”

“Yeah, but that just brings us to the first point,” Ted points out. “Should we go looking in costume or in civvies?”

Booster clicks his tongue. “Well, we don’t _have_ civvies, so it’s not like --” Abrupt silence.

Ted turns to look at Booster, trying to ascertain what made him stop. Booster is seated on the floor just where he was, but there’s a puzzled frown on his face, and he turns his head restlessly, like he’s trying to locate something he doesn't know where is.

Then Ted hears it too, through the pounding rain.

A weak knocking.

Ted rises from his seat and scans the outside through the thick glass, so hard to see when the only source of light is the inefficient lamp on the console. Then he spots a silhouette outside. A small body, dressed in pajamas, feet almost obscured by mud. Hugging himself, shivering so hard his teeth must be chattering, and he’s absolutely soaked through by the cold autumn rain.

“Open the door. Rip! Open the door!” Booster hisses as he rises to his feet.

Rip does so, and Booster launches himself through the moment the gap is big enough for him, picking up the shivering child in his arms, wincing noticeably at using his sore shoulder. When he carries the boy into the sphere, Theo coughs so long and hard it sounds like he’s gonna turn himself inside out.

“What do you think you're doing?!” Ted snaps at Theo, so worked up he can barely think. The last thing they need, the kid missing at night, people looking for him. The boy is curled up in Booster's arms, shivering from the top of his dripping auburn curls to his muddy, slippered feet. The little moron, without even the sense to dress for a rainstorm. “You could have worn some goddamned boots! A fucking coat or something! What on earth made you think --” 

“Shut up. Just shut up!” Booster snaps back at him, sending him such an angry glare it makes Ted close his mouth. Booster kneels down, cradling the shivering, coughing child in his arms, studying him with a frown.

This is goddamned insane. Little moron with no sense of self preservation at all. If this was Ted once upon a time it’s a wonder he ever made it to adultho--

Ted grimaces at himself, turning away.

Every tortured cough makes the plump little body seize up in a tight, trembling ball, arms clutched tightly across his chest.

“Jesus, he’s really burning up,” Booster murmurs helplessly. Then finally, when there’s a pause in the hacking and wheezing and Theo drops limply back, his eyelashes beaded with tears from the effort of coughing, Booster smiles gently at him. “Hey, buddy. Why’d you come all the way out here in the rain, huh? You wanted to see our ship that bad?”

“I had to get --” Theo’s voice grows thick before he coughs again, a rough, painful sound. “I tuh-took it. I took it and sn-snuck out when they were buh-busy in the -- the--” Another bout of coughing overtakes him, and for a moment his trembling seems to worsen, both from the cold and muscles that are exhausted from seizing up for every cough.

“Took what, Theo?”

Theo continues coughing, sucking in air with a pained wheeze before starting to cough again so hard that he gags and retches.

Ted's gaze catches the corner of something black and smooth clutched in the child’s arms. He squats down, mechanically reaching out and taking it, the kid offering no resistance. It’s so heavy in his hands, eerily familiar with an almost forbidden aura around it, and he opens it, spotting the gleaming metal within.

Rip leans over him, one hand on Ted’s shoulder. “Is that --?” 

His dad’s wallet. His dad’s key.

Ted nods stiffly.

“Ah. Okay. Okay,” Rip breathes, standing up, pulling bandaged fingers through his hair. “Then we should, um... Act fast.”

“He’s _sick,”_ Booster protests, keeping his voice low. “Like... _Really_ sick. We need to --” He exhales sharply, frowning at the child that's now lying exhausted and shivering in his arms. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do, he needs --” At a loss, he looks pleadingly from Rip to Ted. “What do we do?”

Ted can feel that same concern and fear rushing inside him, but he sets his jaw, holding Booster’s gaze. “We get him back in bed, we get the tools, Rip fixes the time machine, and we leave.”

“Yeah, I don’t think a good night’s sleep isn’t gonna fix him right up, Ted!” Booster hisses, then he flinches, remembering himself. “--Beetle.”

Theo blinks weakly at the dark glass ceiling now there's a break in the coughing, giving no indication of being present enough to hear.

“I know,” Ted murmurs at Booster. “But we can’t get hold of a doctor in here. My p-- His parents can. So we need to get him home.”

“Okay.” It’s more of a rushing exhale than a spoken word. Booster rises to his feet with a groan, still carrying Theo. He's holding his right arm tightly against his torso, obviously trying to disguise the pain. “So let’s go. Let’s go right now.”

“Your shoulder's still messed up,” Ted observes quietly.

Booster snorts. “My shoulder's the least important thing happening right now.”

“I’ll carry him,” Ted tells him, reaching out his arms.

Instinctively Booster steps back, hugging the child closer to his chest. “No, I don’t think --”

Ted grimaces. “What, like I’m gonna dump him in a ditch?” He demonstrably reaches out his hands again, palms up. “Look, I want him back safe and sound, same as you. Even _more_ than you do, probably.”

Booster frowns at him for a moment, like he’s weighing it over in his mind. Then he leans over and gently deposits the limp body into Ted’s arms, so gingerly, like something out of spun glass. Theo stirs and mumbles something, eyes barely open, unfocused. He doesn’t feel quite as heavy as Ted remembers, but then they were practically locked in battle the last time he picked him up.

Rip unzips his jacket and shrugs out of it, revealing once again the bright white T-shirt underneath. He carefully places the red and green jacket over the boy, wrapping the edges around him, and then they silently, swiftly, begin their journey back to the house.

The air feels thick with rain, splashing down in huge, heavy drops. It’s so dark Ted has to rely more on the muscle memory of walking these streets than any visual clues. Once or twice they pass under streetlamps that still work, beacons of warm light in the black rain. Under one of them he sees the last traces of baking soda splotches on the ground in the process of getting washed away, and that’s when he the thought crashes into his head, stark like a bolt of lightning:

This curled up, tightly shivering body he's carrying, it's... It's actually a real child. An actual little person. 

With interests, and dislikes, and friends, and thoughts and... a whole life to live.

Of course Ted's been keenly, embarrassingly aware all along that it's _him._ That Theo is who he used to be, all clueless and incomplete. All along this boy has felt more like a ghost, a little specter of his past, seeming to inhabit every trait Ted worked so hard to unlearn, to hide. But here, in this age, Theo isn't the ghost. Ted is.

Because right now Theo's a boy who lives on Wellesley Drive in a yellow house with a green mailbox outside, a little boy who loves when his mother makes him apple pierogis, who worships Captain Comet, whose little mind absorbs and retains every single detail he learns about space.

He glances down at the round, fever-flushed face, Theo’s eyes pinched shut against the rain.

He's barely even started out. All the things he's yet to discover, to do -- things no other person in the world is gonna experience just like him, in that particular order, in those specific context that will make them uniquely meaningful to him.

Sure, a good number of those things are going to suck, they were always going to suck. But the good parts, the best parts... The thrill of experiencing those things for the first time, Theo is meant to _have those moments_. Like...

Like the burning pride of submitting his first patent, getting up in the middle of the night just to admire the stamped papers for the hundredth time, the undeniable acknowledgement of the strange and wonderful things his mind can do. The years of cheerfully misspent nights with Murray, gradually learning to just let loose, be unabashedly stupid and impulsive, feeling like the world is their oyster. The rare and perfect privilege of being allowed to soak up Dan's wisdom, his advice, his praise, his superbly dry sense of humor. And then... The unparalleled sense of purpose he'll feel when he dons the cowl for the first time. And one day, the crazy random chance of being teamed up with a guy from the distant future who just happens to be the single funniest, kindest, most breathtakingly beautiful man who ever lived.

So many things. So many things! The friends he’s made, the events he's taken part in.

Even soon, in this time, they'll launch the Apollo 8. Next year, he's meant to sit wide-eyed with the whole neighborhood crammed into Mr. Kazinsky's living room as they watch the Apollo 11 transmission from the moon, little chest bursting with pride at the adults asking him about the spacecraft, the astronauts' suits, the technology, the science of it; That one perfect, shining moment of being allowed to let his knowledge and burning interests flow freely out of him, reflected back at him, without being told to shut up, without being seen as some obsessive little weirdo.

Hurrying onward, Ted can tell that Theo's shivering is weakening, limp exhaustion creeping into the little limbs, and Ted hugs him tighter, trying to share some of his own body heat. _Just make it. Please just make it through this._ Because it wouldn't be fair. It wouldn't be fair to deny Theo all those things, when Ted was allowed to experience them. The one person in history who would enjoy those things in those particular ways. Theo deserves all of them.

Finally the house lies before them, the light in the windows alerting Ted that Theo’s parents -- _his_ parents, his mother and father, are still up. There’s a moment when he hesitates.

“Okay,” Booster huffs close by, catching his breath after hurrying all this way. “What order do we do this in? Do we knock on the door, or what?”

“I’ll get him through the window, I’ll get him to bed,” Ted murmurs, regarding the warm light of the living room.

“We can’t just let him lie there alone when he's sick!” Booster hisses, and for a moment Ted thinks he might snatch the child back, out of his arms. “He needs medical attention, Beetle!”

“I know,” Ted hisses back. “I’ll get him in there and -- and get their attention, okay? They’ll check on him, and when they’re busy with him, we’ll take what we need from the chest in the garage.”

Rip makes a little noise of protest. “Then his father will find us when he rushes to the car to drive Theo to the doctor or the hospital."

“I think you severely overestimate how concerned his dad’s gonna be,” Ted mutters darkly.

Rip studies him for a moment in silence, passing the wallet from one hand to the other. "Even so," he murmurs at last. "It's not a chance I want us to take."

“Okay, fine,” Ted sighs, hefting the small body up a little. “I’ll get him to bed, and when you’ve got the stuff you need and we’re ready to leave, you signal me and that’s when I’ll get them involved.”

“I really don’t think Theo should wait,” Booster argues in a strained voice.

Rip sets his jaw, regarding the house. “I know. So we’ll have to work fast, don’t we?” He turns his attention back to Ted. “I’ll wave when we’re ready to leave, okay?”

Ted's sets his sights on the window to Theo's room, mercifully still open after Ted made his exit earlier. “Got it. I'll keep an eye out.”

“Don’t get caught.” Booster’s voice is barely above a whisper, urgent and miserable. “And don’t let him-- Just get him warmed up, okay?”

Ted nods resolutely, wasting no time. He tosses Rip's jacket to him as Rip and Booster move towards back door into the garage, the wallet heavy in Rip's hand.

Of course it’d be no problem climbing back through the window on his own, but doing it while carrying a hefty six-year-old as dead weight is more of a challenge. Ted weighs his options until he coaxes the kid over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, crouching down against the wall before launching himself up, just barely able to hook his hands around the windowsill. Heavy. So heavy, the both of them. A 100% increase in the number of Ted Kords he usually has to carry. Though to be fair, the kid can’t weigh a quarter of his adult body.

Ted hangs heavy for a microsecond before he swings his feet against the wall, and gritting his teeth, arms trembling with effort, he manages to pull the both of them through the window, scraping his knee slightly as he plants it on the windowsill. The sudden change in direction makes the limp body slip off his shoulder and he has to flail to catch the kid just before he crashes headfirst to the floor.

He takes a moment, closing his eyes as he sits straddling the sill, clutching the kid’s body to his chest. Breathing too hard. From the effort, from the adrenaline. He's not usually this worked up on a mission, doesn't find his hands trembling like this during regular acts of heroism. Just... Too many things, too many consequences. So he allows himself this one tiny moment. Just a miniscule break to collect himself, catch his breath. He has time. He’s sure he has a little bit of time as the others break into the tool chest.

The kid's room is bathed in darkness, darker than even the rainy night outside. Ted reaches out a hand to the left, into the room, until he can feel the desk's edge, the cord, and follow it to the desk lamp's light switch. There's a strange little flash of pride in him that he still knew exactly where to find it. He switches it on, and the light of the desk lamp is yellow and soft. He swings his other leg over the sill.

That's part one done. Next, get the kid in bed, fix the soaked, ice cold jammies situation, wait for the signal. That's all.

He drops the kid down on the bed a little rougher than he meant to, fatigue already setting in, in his hands and arms. The jolt seem to rouse Theo slightly, because he stirs and blinks weakly at Ted.

Theo's voice is barely audible when he tries to speak. “Did y..." He coughs thickly. "Did you guh-get... the key?”

“Sure. Sure.” Ted moves to the wooden dresser and eases the first drawer open, looking for something dry for the kid to wear. He finds only starched shirts, the kind he’d wear for Rosh Hashana and school photos. 

“Good. So I..." A strained breath through painfully narrowed throat. "Helped the... team."

“In case you missed it,” Ted murmurs, opening another drawer. Socks. "We actually abandoned that plan hours ago."

There's a soft little noise of acknowledgement from Theo, wordless and almost polite.

Another drawer opened. Shorts. Of all the things Ted can perfectly remember from this house, the drawers of his dresser remain elusive. What did he need all these clothes for? He wasn't the kind of boy who came home all dirty and grass-stained from playing rough. 

A noise interrupts Ted's reminiscing. An almost silent, sharp little intake of breath, followed by a choked, equally soft squeak, muffled and embarrassed. Ted’s hand pauses, recognizing that sound immediately, in his core, in the fabric of him. A young boy trying very, very hard not to cry.

And a part of him tries telling himself that obviously the child is exhausted. Kids cry when they're tired and sick. But the context of it, the impact of it, that settles in his torso, hard and painful. Because he knows this exact feeling, that reaction. When he's trying to hide the disappointment that’s even more painful than usual because it came after a moment of triumph, of rare pride.

He still gets that feeling, as a hero. When he’s done all that he can do, and it turned out to be useless in the end. Not only as a hero, but... As a son. That's how it felt, every time. When he'd worked himself to exhaustion, thinking that surely this time, this idea, this effort, would impress even his dad. When he was so sure he'd found that elusive solution, he'd figured out how to earn that approval, earn that love. And then he'd be met with disapproval, or worse, cold indifference.

Like a boy who went through the freezing rain with a stolen key because he wanted to help.

And maybe that's why he's been acting this way with Theo, maybe that's why he's been so judgmental and annoyed with him, because... Because deep down, he wanted his dad to be right. A part of him wanted to draw the same conclusion, that he was always annoying and strange and useless; See himself like he was, and he'd know it too, that his dad could only ever learn to tolerate him, that even _that_ was a generous act. The best someone like him could hope for.

He stares, unseeing, down at the open drawer, taking a moment to realize that he's looking at another pair of pajamas, a brown onesie with cartoony, smiling bees on them. He grasps them in one hand and returns to the bed, where Theo hasn’t moved an inch from here Ted dropped him. Theo grimaces, making soft little half-choked noises, silent tears running down the fever-flushed cheeks.

"Hey, you did... great, Theo," Ted tells him softly, awkwardly. "Really. We -- We were stuck, we didn't know what to do, and then you got us the key. That was --" He swallows, hearing how shaky his voice is. "That was so brave of you."

Theo sniffles, regarding him with an expression that's both miserable and doubtful.

"You're _brave,"_ Ted repeats emphatically. "And -- and really smart." He offers a smile, knowing it's probably not much of one from how exhausted and raw and stressed he is. "And I'm, uh... sorry that I've been rude to you. I'm really suh-sorry, for that. I'm glad we have you on the team."

Theo's eyes widen slightly, before they squinch closed as he begins to cough again. His coughs are not tortured and fitful like before, but weak and ineffectual, like his body doesn’t have nearly enough strength to commit to a real cough.

Maybe this isn't the time for heartfelt speeches. He really needs to get this kid warmed up. “Your clothes are soaked through,” Ted whispers gently. “Better change into something dry.” He holds up the onesie. “Okay? I’ll help you.”

Theo blinks and coughs weakly again, regarding the bunched-up fabric. “Those don’t... f-fit anymore.”

Ted grimaces only slightly. “I’m sure they fit a little bit, or your mom would have thrown them out.”

“No, they don’t. The... arms are too tight.”

Jeez, now all of a sudden the kid has the energy to argue. “They’re the best I could find. They’re better than the alternative,” Ted hisses, gesturing at the wet pajamas. Then he remembers the plan and stands up, stretching his neck to look out the window. No one there, waving or otherwise. Still got time.

“Nuh-uh. They don’t fit.”

Ted sits down on the edge of the bed, breath whistling between his teeth. Then perks up as well as he can. “Hey, you know how you're a hero now? You’re on the team and everything.”

Theo draws a rasping breath, regarding him suspiciously.

The smile on Ted’s face feels stiff and artificial. “Heroes wear tight clothes.”

There’s an offended snort from Theo.

“Fine, fine, I know,” Ted sighs. “That was weak. That one was beneath the both of us.” He bows his head, massaging his forehead through the cowl with a finger. Then he exhales and regards Theo’s pale face in the dark room. “Look, from one hero to another. We are... Uncomfortable sometimes. Okay? Sometimes we have to do awkward, painful things. And we don’t want to do them, but we still do them because they’re for the best, they’re necessary. Like you did when --” He pauses as Theo coughs weakly again. “Like you did when you ran through the rain to get us the key.” 

There’s a twitch in the corner of Theo’s mouth as his gaze moves to the ceiling. Something loosening a little in his expression.

“That was amazing. Okay?” Ted whispers. “That was a really impressive thing you did. And I know that was really uncomfortable and hard to do but I’m asking you to be a tiny bit more uncomfortable and put this on because you’re really drenched, and cold, and you’re already sick.”

Theo looks back at him, blinking slowly, and Ted is wondering whether he’s coming through or if it’s just the boy moments away from fainting.

“Also it’s either this or the starched dress shirt because that was all I could find.”

The kid giggles softly through his nose, and Ted finds himself smiling too.

Theo weakly tries to assist as Ted carefully peels off the soaked pajamas, but even raising an ice-cold arm, bending a knee, makes the strained breath hitch in Theo’s chest before he flops back down to the mattress, limp and exhausted.

He seems to lose more strength by the minute. Ted figures he should try to keep him talking, keep him awake. “Hey, so,” he murmurs conversationally, letting the water-saturated clothes drop to the floor in a puddle. “What do you want to be more, when you grow up? An astronaut or a hero?”

Theo’s eyes are dull and unfocused. He barely moves as Ted starts pulling on the fresh pair of pajamas.

“Hey. Theo.” 

The child coughs, finally turning his unsteady gaze to Ted. “Huh?”

“You wanna be an astronaut or a hero?” Ted threads the ice cold hand through the arm hole. “Or you could be both, right? Like Captain Comet.”

“I dunno,” Theo murmurs, barely moving his lips. “Heroes aren’t na-- ...named Theodore.”

Ted smirks despite himself. “Sure there are.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Look, as far as _you_ know, every guy out there in tights might be named Theodore," Ted argues with a smile. "Maybe the girls, too.” Having put the final of what felt like too many limbs into their corresponding parts of the pajamas, Ted starts buttoning the thing up.

Theo exhales, the breath strained and uneven through the tightness of his throat. “I bet there’s never been a single..." A soft wheeze. "Hero named Theodore.”

Ted shrugs as naturally as he can as he does up the buttons. “Well, _I_ know someone. -- Several, actually.”

“Who?” The question comes bullet quick, surprising Ted with its energy.

“Well, I can’t tell you," Ted scoffs. "Heroes' names are secret, we don't go around telling each other's secrets to everyone who asks.”

The child exhales, his head lolling back against the pillow, the energy gone as quickly as it came. “Tuh-told you there aren't... any heroes named Theodore,” he restates with exhausted confidence.

Ted chews his lip for a moment, turning the thought over in his mind. The kid is barely lucid, though, feverish and fighting to stay conscious. Ted hitches the final button under Theo’s chin and glances up at him. “Wildcat.”

Theo stirs and frowns, unfocused gaze aimed at the ceiling. “...What?”

“Wildcat’s name is Theodore.”

Those big brown eyes widen, the small pale hand clutches the covers. “Are you--” A short, sharp squeak, of surprise, or delight, or pain, it’s hard to tell. “Is that _true?”_

“Of course it’s true.” Ted picks up Theo again to pull back the covers, and places him gently down on the flannel sheets. “But it’s a secret between heroes, okay? You can’t tell _anyone,_ heroes don't do that.”

“I won’t,” Theo whispers breathlessly as Ted tucks the covers around him, all the way up to his chin. The jolt of excitement seems to have zapped his energy further, though, because his eyelids flicker close, his body shivers. “And puh-people... they... they call him Theodore?”

“Mm, no. Actually --” Ted murmurs, standing up. “Most people just call him, uh...” He offers a weak smile. “Ted.”

Theo coughs weakly once more, eyes still closed, and exhales softly. “Ted.”

At the same moment, out of the corner of his eye Ted sees a vague outline of a tall body step into the street to the side of the house. A sharply lean figure, motionless for a moment before raising a hand, waving it. Ted exhales, springing to the window to wave back, his heartrate increasing again.

Alright. They've got what they need, this is actually happening. Next step. Call his parent’s attention.

“Hey. Buddy,” he whispers hurriedly to the child in bed. “Theo. Don’t suppose you can yell for mom after I’ve --”

But Theo doesn’t stir. Only his chest rises and falls, slowly, with each wheezing breath. His eyes closed, his short eyelashes fluttering against his upper cheeks in fitful sleep.

Okay. Not as easy as planned. Ted twists, searching the room. Didn’t have a record player of his own this young, and no loud electronic toys to set off. And he's probably not any good at mimicking his own six-year-old voice, not after a seemingly long and torturous puberty changed his voice for him.

Finally his eyes alight on the broken spacecraft model on the desk. Standing there unfinished for God knows how many weeks, yet another monument to failure and shame. He picks it up, and even only partially complete, it’s satisfyingly heavy and hefty in his hand.

He regards it for a moment.

The sick thing is, if his dad had shown the slightest interest, he’d probably have found a way to fix it. He's an engineer, for God’s sake. If a joint had snapped and needed replacing, he could have fixed something up in his garage workshop, or even at his job if he was feeling particularly kind. He could have turned an experience of grief and shame into a happy, proud memory, and Ted knows at that age he'd have loved that model even more, knowing his dad had repaired it, made it into a precious collaboration.

But he never did. He never heeded Ted's humble, shamed pleas for help, for support. Just stood by and watched his son struggle and cry. He probably thought it was a lesson of some kind, a form of self-inflicted and appropriate punishment for failing.

Ted’s gaze moves from the metal construction in his hand and to that small version of himself lying under the covers, and something inside his chest vibrates in a strange way.

“Just... Hang in there, okay?” he tells the child softly, knowing he’s not able to hear. “Because... Things are gonna suck for a while, but they’ll get better. Everything is gonna get _so much_ better, I promise.” He steps towards the open window and smiles weakly. _“Next year in Jerusalem,_ you know?”

And he whips his hand back and flings the metal model with all his might at the center of the floor. It bursts apart in a deafening crash, small bits of tin and plastic showering the carpet. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Theo’s little body jolt, and in the next moment Ted has dropped down onto the slick grass, and he’s running in the rain and the dark, only halfway registering that the light flicks on in the room behind him. There’s no one in the street anymore, no one to wave him on, but he turns the corner and there’s Booster waiting for him, looking gaunt and worried.

“Is everything okay?” Booster asks him in a hushed voice. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine, we’re all fine, let’s go.”

When they reach the sphere it’s already humming with energy, the panel lit up. Rip at the controls, barely acknowledging them as they step inside. 

Ted turns and looks over the little sphere several times, as if anything at all could be hidden in this tiny space with only a console and two chairs in it. “Where are the tools?” he asks finally, as Rip presses several more buttons.

“We tried to wave at you when we first got them,” Booster tells him as he offers the spare seat to Ted. Ted waves him off, indicating Booster's hurt shoulder. “But you weren’t responding at all, so -- Rip fixed everything and we put them back, locked up tight.” He offers a brave smile, concern still tingeing his expression. “What were you doing?”

“I don’t know, I just --” Ted gestures back towards where they came from, feeling increasingly exhausted. “I got him into some dry clothes and we talked.”

Booster blinks at him. “You _talked?”_

“A very civil conversation,” Ted tells him, pushing a finger under his goggles to rub his eye. “You’d be surprised at us. What did you do with the wallet and the key?”

“We just kinda --” Rip pauses abruptly as an outside beam of light passes over the trunks of the trees surrounding them. Car tires screech on wet asphalt, and soon only red taillights can be seen between the trunks, getting smaller. Ted imagined for a moment the silhouette of the car seemed eerily similar to a Plymouth Valiant. “We kinda left it on the garage floor, as if he’d --" Rip gestures weakly. "Dropped it, more or less. Hopefully that was close enough.”

“When will we know?” Ted asks in an unfamiliar voice. When will they know Theo made it, that he went on living just the way he was supposed to? When will they know he grew up into _this_ specific Ted Kord?

Rip doesn’t glance at him as the colors start to streak around them, the weird surge in the bottom of Ted’s stomach indicating that they’re moving again. Rip clears his throat as he steers with practiced hands. “I’ll look up some things on the computer in the lab. Then we’ll quickly see if -- if things are very different. Of course, smaller changes might be harder to find.”

Ted snorts softly. “The brussels sprouts.”

“The brussels sprouts.”

* * *

It’s a very different arrival this time, very controlled, comfortable even. No surprise visions, no sudden jolts or jerks. The multicolored streaks just slow and grow still, and suddenly they’re in Rip’s lab, the sphere perched solidly on its low pillar. 

1991\. Just when they're supposed to be.

Ted and Booster sit at Rip’s workbench in uneasy silence, in that lab that had unnerved Ted so much earlier that day. Now it feels... Comforting, almost familiar. A place he wants to be, with smells that make sense, with things that are just things and not exhaustingly meaningful to him. It feels like a respite, a neutral place to just exist. Even if he has to work very hard at not turning around in his seat, trying to see what Rip’s research might turn up. Behind him he can hear buttons being tapped, machines whirring.

Just sit and experience time passing when it's supposed to.

“You okay?” Booster murmurs softly at him, moving his leg slightly to touch his knee to Ted’s.

"Still here," Ted smirks weakly. "Again."

“I mean, are you okay, like... Jesus. With everything." Booster frowns at him with blue eyes. "Things got pretty weird back there.”

Ted grimaces like he’s about to laugh, but he doesn’t feel like laughing. “Oh, you know. I mean, I -- I went through a therapist’s wet dream, didn’t I? A chance to speak to yourself when you were a child?”

“And you called him a nerdy weirdo.”

Ted sits upright in his seat. “I mean, I _was_ a nerdy weirdo!” The smile on his face feels odd. “I mean, I -- I am... that.” He frowns down at his gloved hands, still cold and damp from the rain -- the rain in 1968. “But I -- It was good, almost. Seeing that once upon a time I felt... Pretty comfortable like that. A reminder what it was like before I -- you know -- I knew better.”

Booster looks at him with soft eyes, exhaling through his nose.

“I mean, kids are supposed to be little weirdos, that’s part of the deal. They're allowed to.” Ted snorts softly. “Now I... I kinda wish I could have stayed a proud little weirdo longer than I did. I wish people hadn't given me such a hard time about it. I wish _I_ hadn't--” He wipes his nose with the back of his hand, tittering awkwardly. “I’m sorry, I’m not making any sense. I’m really tired.”

"You're making sense to me." Booster leans forward in his seat, placing a warm, heavy hand on Ted’s upper arm. “For what it’s worth, I love that you're a nerdy weirdo. That you kept being one.” He gently trails his thumb over Ted's shoulder, regarding him lovingly. "My poor Theo."

Ted giggles sharply. "Absolutely not! I'm going to punch you if you call me Theo. That's worse than calling me Theodore.”

Booster smiles, not removing his hand, though his expression grows a little tenser. He tells him in a soft voice: “And if... I mean, if we changed things too much, if there’s --” He glances up, behind Ted, towards where Rip disappeared behind a computer bank twenty minutes ago, hard at work researching. “If there’s a different Ted Kord out there now, I’m still sticking with you, okay?” He exhales, holding Ted’s gaze. “You’re the one I like.”

Ted makes a weird little noise, something catching in the back of his throat. “Thank you,” he whispers.

Of all the different varieties of himself that might be out there right now -- evil or boring or superpowered or whatever -- what really worries him is that maybe Other Ted is... Perfect. Popular and successful and charming and trim, a living embodiment of what Ted had the opportunity to become if he had been smarter about things, more disciplined. What he'd be if he hadn't ruined all the chances life threw at him.

Easy for Booster to reassure him now, though maybe one glance at Other Ted would win his heart completely, show him what he's been missing.

“We’ll figure it out. We’ll make it work," Booster grins. "I mean, even if we have to lock the other guy away in a dungeon or something.”

“Hey, to him _I’m_ the imposter, you know!” Ted argues emphatically. “He doesn’t appreciate dungeons anymore than I would, I bet.” Or maybe he does. Maybe he's weird like that. That would solve some problems, definitely.

“Ah, there! God!” Rip exclaims, his voice echoing through the lab. “Found it!”

Just as Ted twists in his seat, his heart playing a drum solo in his chest, Rip turns the corner and hurries towards them, his arms full of reams of paper printouts, a massive untidy stack. He stops, and almost seems surprised at the way Ted and Booster are staring breathlessly at him.

“Found it,” he repeats softly.

“What did you find, Rip?” Booster asks finally, his voice tense and strange.

Rip grins and addresses Ted, indicating him with a hand, making a bunch of papers spill to the ground. “You were sick!”

“I -- I know I was sick,” Ted stutters. “What did you _find?”_

“Hospital records!” Rip starts searching through his mountain of paper, more falling to the ground every moment until he grimaces, obviously annoyed that he can’t find it to show them. Finally he gives up, dropping the rest of the papers to the concrete floor with a _phwoop._ “You were six, you stayed in Millstone Hospital fighting a really bad case of pneumonia.”

“I _know!”_ Ted replies, incredulous. “Obviously! I mean, we know that from before -- I _remember.”_ At least the tail end of his almost month-long stay. The first few weeks he only knows from what his mother would tell him later, he was too sick to process where he was, what was happening to him. It's not a revelation that one of his bouts of illness got him hospitalized, and it's making his heart sink that he has to convince Rip that it's not proof of anything. "I remember," he repeats, emphatically.

Rip's grin grows wider. “Do you?”

“Yes!” Ted groans. He turns to Booster. “Like, I -- I’ve told you all about that. With the -- you know, the fire drill, and, and why I can’t stand Jell-o? I told you how I--” Ted stops dead in his tracks, mouth still open, because he can tell by the wide-eyed look Booster’s giving him that he... hasn’t.

But he must have. The Jell-O thing especially, because with a sweet tooth like Ted’s it’s a real bummer to get nauseous just in the presence of Jell-O, just the sight of people eating it. He brings it up constantly -- mostly just for cheap sympathy points, granted. _Everyone's_ heard him complain about the Jell-O thing.

Ted turns back to Rip with wide eyes, barely comprehending. _“No._ Are you telling me... Is that _new?”_

_But it can’t be._

It can’t be, it was always a thing in his past, a weird little murky pause in his childhood, seriously sick but pulling through, reading comics in a hospital bed until he was well enough to go home. The mint green sheets, the bedside homework, the dinners that tasted almost entirely of salt, with only cups and cups of Jell-O to counter it. It was always part of his life, his memories. “How can that be _new?!”_

“Those memories are in your head, which means that, _that_ \--” Rip indicates the time sphere with a toss of his head. _“That_ Theo grew up to be _you._ You’re the right Ted Kord! You’re the one who’s been here all along!”

“Holy shit,” Booster gasps, pressing a palm to his forehead in delighted shock. His eyes shine. “Holy... shit! Um, Rip. Rip, can you find those -- those hospital record again? I wanna see them.” He jumps to his feet, his body vibrating with joy. “I _really_ wanna see them.”

“Oh! Uh, of course,” Rip replies brightly, squatting down to the pile of papers at his feet, carefully picking them up and studying them one by one.

Booster has grabbed hold of Ted’s arm, pulling him towards the computer terminal, the way Rip came from. “I saw you drop some more papers over here too, we're gonna help you look.”

The grip around Ted's forearm is remarkably firm. He chuckles in surprised confusion as they turn the corner and the workbench slips from view. “Booster, what’re you--”

And Booster pulls him close, kissing him harder than he’s ever been kissed.

**Author's Note:**

> See? See, this is why ~~Booster~~ I kept telling ~~Ted~~ you "go with the flow". Don't think too hard about it, please. Just accept that it'd be kinda fun for time paradoxes to work like that, that's literally the bar we're setting here.
> 
> I want to acknowledge that "transgenderism" is an outdated term that's mostly used by transphobic shitheels these days, but back then it was used academically, and I wanted to indicate that Ted's knowledge largely comes from reading academic papers about it. Terminology around gender and sexuality is constantly evolving!
> 
>  **[Song:](https://open.spotify.com/user/tilly_stratford/playlist/4SqomvmhyncWPEAobYUZ88?si=DNXWufsLSs29KqRywW2U9A)**  
>  Only time will tell - Asia
> 
> I've tried to convey some **"SPOILERS"** about Booster and Ted's (admittedly, distant) future in this three-parter [SO IF YOU DON'T KNOW AND FOR SOME REASON STILL DON'T WANT TO KNOW, DO NOT CONTINUE READING THIS PARAGRAPH], but in case you're not shoulder deep in (pre-Flashpoint) DC canon and my particular broke-brained interpretation of it, here's the real story: You've just witnessed Rip Hunter having a VERY stressful field-trip with his two dads. This arc had parents all the way down, baby.


End file.
